She gave him a hug. ‘You were a star.’
Sebastian walked up a shallow ramp into an inviting room softly lit by a single lamp. On the left was a drawing board, a computer workstation—a mini studio lit by a floor-to-ceiling window.
Matty Lang was an artist? He looked around, half expecting to see her work on the walls, but she favoured woven fabric hangings rather than conventional pictures. Or maybe that was her medium. There was nothing on the drawing board to give him a clue.
There was something about the set-up that didn’t look quite right, but what with jet lag, an excess of family disapproval at the funeral and the realisation that while it was possible to dispense with the ‘noblesse’, the ‘oblige’ was inescapable, his wits were not at their sharpest.
Whisky, on top of the single glass of champagne he’d drunk to toast the memory of George, was probably not his wisest move, but he wasn’t driving and, since wisdom was not going to change anything, he might as well behave like a fool. It wouldn’t be the first time.
On his right there was a large sofa, angled to look into the garden. It was flanked with end tables—one loaded with books, the other with the remotes for a small television set and hi-fi unit.
It looked desperately inviting, and he would have given a lot just to surrender to its comfort and stretch out for five minutes, eyes closed. He resisted the temptation and instead poured a small amount of Scotch into two glasses. He walked into the kitchen, took mineral water from the fridge and added a splash to both glasses before carrying them back outside.
And immediately he saw what, if he hadn’t been so involved in his own problems, he should have noticed from the beginning. What the ramp—instead of a step—should have alerted him to.
Realised what had been missing from her workstation. But then why would she need a conventional chair? Because the reason Matty Lang wasn’t dancing had nothing to do with exhaustion from her best woman duties.
It was because she was in a lightweight, state-of-the art wheelchair.
The tablecloth, which had hidden the wheels from the casual observer, had been pulled askew, and for a moment he hesitated, lost in a confusion of embarrassment, as he remembered asking her if she tap-danced, and sheer admiration for her completely unfazed response.
He’d enjoyed her sense of humour, but now he could appreciate it for what it truly was. Not just dry, but wicked, as she’d teased him about his invitation to dance. Precious little self-pity there.
She glanced up and caught him staring. Made a tiny moue with her lips, acknowledging the truth.
‘I’m not sure I should be giving you this,’ he said, handing her a glass. ‘I wouldn’t want you to get a ticket for being drunk-in-charge. Especially since you’ve got a passenger on board.’
She took a sip, rewarded him with a smile for not losing his head and bolting and, hampered by the child she was holding, gave him back the glass. ‘Can you put that on the table for me?’ Then, ‘Have you met Toby?’
‘No, I haven’t had that pleasure…’ He put down the glasses and folded himself up so that he was on the boy’s level. ‘Although I’ve heard all about you.’ He offered his hand. ‘I’m Sebastian. How d’you do?’
The child took his hand and shook it formally. ‘I’m Toby Dymoke,’ he said. ‘Twice.’
‘Twice?’
‘It was my daddy’s name, and it’s my new daddy’s name, too.’
‘Well, that’s handy. Not having to remember a new one.’
‘They were brothers. I’m a brother, too. I’ve got a baby sister.’
‘Really? Me too. At least, I’ve got three of them, although they’re not babies any more. Great, isn’t it?’
‘Great,’ Toby said, and with an expert wriggle slid down. ‘I’m going to find her now.’ And he ran off.
There was a momentary silence. Then Matty said, ‘You have three sisters?’
‘Three older sisters, actually. Bossy, Pushy and Lippy.’
‘Not that great, then?’
‘Hardly the hero-worshipping kind who trailed after me, the way they do in the storybooks,’ he admitted.
‘They gave you a hard time?’
‘Gave? You should have been at George’s funeral. Just because I’m his executor they blame me for the “entire tasteless performance”. I’m quoting, you understand.’
‘I understand.’
She had a way of not smiling, but making you feel as if she was. Inside.
‘And for the fact that there was no dry sherry.’
She pulled her lips back in an attempt to stop herself from laughing out loud, then apologised. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not at all funny.’
‘It should have been.’ He thought, actually, that if she’d been there to share the joke it would have been bearable.
‘What about your parents?’ she asked, distracting him.
‘What? Oh, my mother looked tragic and drank the champagne; my father harrumphed and said that it was a bit of a rum do.’
‘And your sisters were a complete embarrassment?’
‘Nothing new there.’
‘While you, of course, were always the perfect brother. No frogspawn in their face cream, no spiders in their slippers, no itching powder in their beds.’
‘Frogspawn in their face cream?’
‘Forget I said that. That one is reserved for wicked stepmothers.’
‘You did that to your stepmother?’
‘Oh, I did all of them. But then I’m not nice.’
‘That rather depends on what prompted it.’
‘My father married her, poor woman. That was enough.’ Then, when he didn’t respond, ‘I told you. I’m not nice.’
He shook his head and, taking his cue from her about being direct, unemotional, he said, ‘It wasn’t your character I was thinking about. It just occurred to me that if you managed to fish for frogspawn you can’t always have been in a wheelchair.’
‘You think a wheelchair would have stopped me? If I couldn’t have managed it myself, I would have persuaded someone else to get it for me.’
‘Fran?’ he asked, glancing in the direction of the bride, who smiled at him before leaning close to Guy to whisper something in his ear.
‘I wouldn’t have told her why I wanted it,’ she assured him. ‘She is much nicer than me. But it wasn’t necessary. The wheelchair has only been part
